


drowning in the LEDs

by toro (sapoeysap)



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: Bittersweet, Gen, Healing, Missed Connections, Sad and Happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-09
Updated: 2020-02-09
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:55:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,038
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22632232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sapoeysap/pseuds/toro
Summary: post coffee, post road trips, past it all.
Relationships: Valtteri Bottas/Daniil Kvyat
Comments: 7
Kudos: 21





	drowning in the LEDs

**Author's Note:**

> blame [babypapaya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/babypapaya) for making me return to this (in the best way possible)
> 
> thank you all for the feedback to [red brake lights](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22175179) it kind of took me apart because this was pretty self indulgent.  
> also now i'm not the only fic in this tag, but the others are in french :( 
> 
> this is a work of fiction. please do not presume I believe anything here to be real. And please do not share this work outside of ao3.

**You should come out, watch a rally, get out of whatever state you’re in**

Valtteri is unsure the moment he send’s the text. If it’s fair to the man on the receiving end. Who judging by Instagram posts, is living it up in Faenza. All guitars and sim work. An image broadcast on social media of happiness, Val knows that sometimes these images are bullshit, carefully manufactured. But something about this one, how happy and content Daniil looks, arm resting on a guitar and a classic song. Val finds himself knowing the image is real, he wonders how much he had to do with that smile. If anything at all.

He hates that he can’t tell what’s going on in Daniil’s mind. How unfair it is that he can’t pull all the Russian’s thoughts out to analyse them one by one. That he can’t do the same with his own brain. Daniil hasn’t messaged since they went their separate ways half a month ago. Russia’s coffee shops and ice rinks behind them. Did he fuck it up by being unwilling to acknowledge there was something to fuck up? And now he’s realised the extent of feelings. Everything is complicated. It was easy when it was just hockey pucks.

**I’ve never rallied**

The reply sits like a weight in Val’s stomach. So dry and barked out. Val hates texting. He calls. Doomed to repeat history.

‘Moi Moi’

Stupid cycle he’s stuck in.

‘Valtteri, Hello. I am a single seater man, I don’t think I was that good of a co pilot in Russia’ Daniil eases out the words, like they are nothing. Maybe the limbo really all is in Val’s head.

‘I have a rally event coming up, you wouldn’t have to drive. I would just like you there’ Val knows he’s shoot himself in the foot by asking. Being so forward.

‘I don’t have to be co-pilot. I can just watch right? Where is it’

And its sorted, like half a month ago. Funny the lengths they are willing to drive for one another and this unlabelled thing. The way it’s so awkward over the phone but the moment they are together, they ease back into the bubble of comfortable silence and easy banter that had defined the latter stages of their Russian road trip.

Daniil looks good in the bright white LED headlights of the cars, dark skies and dramatic sunsets behind me. Wrapped up in plain Alpha Tauri jackets and cold only betrayed by the redness of his nose.

Valtteri drivers through the course, loops around snowbanks avoiding reindeer and trees. He blames the knot on his stomach on the thrill of the drive.

Ignores the way that all through the celebrations and snowman making, the knot in his stomach never loosens, just tightens at the way Daniil waits for him, in that ugly blue and yellow beanie holding a cup of hot chocolate. Its not as good as the first hot chocolate they shared together. Sits wrong on top of the knot.

Everything keeps cycling, like there showing each other their worlds before anything that even resembles a friendship is defined.

Valtteri leads the way to the cabin that the team have booked for him.

‘It’s a one bed, sorry. And a single’

‘You weren’t planning on guests, I understand. That or you just wanted to spoon me again’

Val’s content with the way the humour sneaks into Daniil’s tone.

He watches with wide eyes as Dany takes of layers of his clothes, reveals arms that are more toned than half a month ago, he reaches out, watches his own hands as he traces up and down Daniil’s arm.

He’s not sure if something is meant to happen. If they are meant to reach out for each other, graze arms and consummate whatever these longing looks add up too. Daniil keeps his socks on, which strikes Valtteri as amusing. That they can lie tangled together. Awake. In boxers and shirts, but Daniil has his socks on. Like it means something. Soles and souls and the chill of the snow is getting to Val’s head. It’s all mixed up frustratingly so.

‘This was good. Fun even’ Daniil say’s, sneaks a laugh into Valtteri’s chest.

Val find’s his hand idles across and up his companion’s arms. It’s a mirror of something. A mirror of desire wants and loneliness. Companionship sought for fear of loneliness. Twenty-five, and Daniil’s worry lines are already etched onto his forehead even in the bliss of semi-sleep. Val had googled the Russian man’s age again and again, like Wikipedia was lying to him.

They don’t talk. No alcohol spare to ease conversation. Instead. Val falls asleep with Daniil’s body splayed over him, dark blond hair tickling his nose. Heavy body asleep on his chest. Daniil’s taller, yet he acts so small for Val, pulled away and curled up like he can hide.

He wonders if he should tell Daniil he had the option of a cabin with two beds.

That he’d picked this out. Searching for just some connection.

Val isn’t sure he’s found it. And then the man on his chest sniffles, turns his head even further like he’s chasing what little warmth a man who has been driving a car in the snow all day has to spare. Daniil’s arm is tight from where it is thrown over him.

He makes them hot chocolate in the morning. And tries to resist the temptation that spills from him unbidden, to wipe the chocolate away that stains the side of Daniil’s mouth. Too intimate an act even for the precarious balance of ‘them’. 

Val doesn’t feel empty when Daniil leaves, he just feels spaced out, like he’s been broken and now he’s back together all the pieces are so not quite fitting with one another. He picks up his overnight bag from the cabin, and finds Daniil’s left a flannel, draped over the bed. It smells thick with Daniil’s washing powder and woody cologne. He wants it to have been left on purpose. He knows its presence is an accident. There’s a Russian man one layer down on a plane somewhere right now. And a Finnish man folding a flannel delicately into his bag. Preserving it for purpose unknown.

* * *

Valtteri wishes that the next few weeks don’t unfold like this. But that’s how things happen sadly. The new season looms ever closer, diaries are fuller. Days and moments squeezed in around naps and flights. Daniil’s this weird lifeline, a voice down the phone who gets it but doesn’t get it all at once. Sure, it’s the same sport, sure they are both podium holders, overshadowed by teammates and big names.

‘Saw you rallying on Instagram. Finally decide it was for you’, he says, as his hand scrolls down his MacBook, replaying the stories Daniil had posted to Instagram a few hours earlier.

‘No, just a few spins. Not Rallying like you rally.’

Another day, another minute of downtime, this time the rejection comes in text form. Which burns a hole in Valtteri’s pocket the moment he puts his phone away after reading.

**Sorry, I can’t. I’m at Kitzbühel with Red Bull. It’s press stuff**

**It’s cool I get it**

He does get it. But it doesn’t mean he has to like it.

Mercedes have a team rally meet planned. Like a skiing session but less risk hypothetically of one of them breaking legs and so on. It’s a few days away, but short enough that Valtteri deems it just overnight bag packable.

Of course, when he opens the overnight bag, the flannel, all red and black check, stares at him. He brings it to his face, inhales. Questions everything as he chases a scent that’s now mixed with the smell of himself. A leftover from being stored away in his bag for a few weeks. If he puts it on, will his arms fit in the sleeves, or burst out with the disparity between his and Daniil’s arm muscle.

He’s stumbled out of his weird reprieve by the vibrations of his phone.

Speak of the devil, or whatever the saying is.

‘I have a weekend free, my last before the season’ Funny that the thing between them now has extended to a lack of greetings. Just straight into a conversation.

‘Mercedes rally weekend.’ Val pauses, thinks over his sentence hears Daniil inhale. ‘You were a Ferrari boy and now, you’re back to being a red bull boy. Don’t think I can sneak that one past Toto. Or explain uh’ Val says the words and stops. Daniil is speaking. Just an ‘oh okay. See you in Australia then’ the dial tone is brash. He hopes Daniil doesn’t question the way that Guti was a Ferrari boy and is now hooping around the Merc garage, in big ski jackets alongside the rest of them. Or that Val panicked at the last sentence, a fear of explanation of whatever him and Daniil are. Not to Toto or not to Daniil himself.

The dial tone echoes in his head. That beep beep of silence and rejection. Hollow. The flannel weighs heavy all of a sudden. It folds neatly back into the bag. Same old new home until it gets reunited with its owner. Val pulls it out again and takes a final inhale. Like an idiot. He regrets it as he looks up and catches sight of himself In the glass panels of the door. Sat on the floor, sniffing a flannel shirt that belongs to his colleague. It’s shoved back into the bag with the rest of his stuff. To be forgotten.

He’s boarding the flight when he gets a message from Daniil.

**Do you have my red flannel?**

Val thumbs the phone off. Can’t hurt him if it doesn’t exist. It shouldn’t be a problem anyways. Just means Daniil didn’t leave the shirt on purpose, that information shouldn’t surprise Valtteri, but it hurts anyways.

* * *

Things don’t work out the way they should. This should be the first lesson of entering this sport. But its forgotten, buried down in the proverbial circus. His seat is firmer this year. It’s just the competition with Lewis. It’s always just the competition with Lewis though.

Toto is sending him glances from across the top of the car. Valtteri can’t work out what they mean.

The day is good, there’s a positive air. That build up nonsense of the Mercedes being shit when they all know it’s still at it’s peak. That the WDC should be in their hands again with either driver, that the constructers cup is already won before they’ve even put the car on the track. Everyone is having the time of their lives; it doesn’t feel like a work trip. It feels like friendship. Not colleagues.

That’s probably why it stings when he gets back to his chalet room and Daniil is sat on his bed, in one of his new big Alpha Tauri jackets, like he’s just gotten their a few minutes before you, not even had time to take his coat off.

Valtteri wonders if the dent in the meticulously folded duvet is as big as the dent Daniil is leaving in his world, probably just as big as the Alpha Tauri coat, which is actually doing Daniil favours.

The silence stretches out for a long time.

Valtteri takes his own coat off.

They’d spent days, travelling around Russia. Daniil had taken him to a camera shop in Moscow, watched Valtteri pick out old Lecia’s and Canon’s. He’d purchased a body of an old Kodak with intent to fix it up. But the camera still sits in the boot of the G Wagon on his driveway in Finland, the house he hasn’t had time to go back to in nearly half a month. Daniil had looked delighted that Valtteri was happy. He snaps out of the memory as Daniil speaks.

‘You have my flannel’

Val wonders who organised this. If Daniil had asked Toto, had pulled some strings or something. He wonders if the Russian actually has any sway at all.

‘Lewis’ he says cryptically, like it’s the answer to the question Val isn’t asking out loud.

Of course. Lewis. It makes so much sense and no sense at all. A season ago Valtteri would have taken it as Lewis trying to make a power play on him, some kind of Rosberg-ian mind tactics. Now he just take’s it as the waving of a white flag. One of Lewis, stay blessed moves. Comforting really that Lewis is looking out for him like this. Maybe. Valtteri isn’t sure really. Everything is so confusing.

Daniil stands up all of a sudden, pulls Valtteri into his arms. There’s a dent on the bed where Daniil had been sat. Val closes his eyes and breathes in, it’s all new coat and none of the scent he’s been surviving on the memory of.

‘It’s in my bag’

Daniil is warm, a comfort. They pull away.

On reflection, when they are wrapped in each other’s arms approximately ten minutes later, the sequence that follows is uncharacteristic.

Normally, well, for the entirety of the impromptu road trip through Russia, they had lain together in double beds. Falling asleep separately but within each other’s grasps. Waking up entangled with one another. The rally trip is the first time they had ended up sharing precious bed space together.

But to fall into bed now, something happens, different from the usual routine.

Valtteri had watched himself pull away from the hug, use steady hands to undo the zipper of the Alpha Tauri jacket. Peel it off, Daniil, hang it next to his coat. Val knows, as he strokes Daniil’s arm from where he is lying across Daniil’s chest, that he is obsessed with the Russian’s arms. Every encounter had been marred by the way he had study the flexing of the muscles as they do simple activities. He had peeled Dany’s shirt off carefully, watched by brown eyes hidden in tired circles. Undone the belt carefully, pulled it out, wraps it around his hands and ignored the goose bumps that mar the pale skin that stretches out in front of him.

The sound of Daniil’s zipper still echoes through his brain. Dany had shuddered, as Valtteri had pulled the jeans down. Folded them over, placed them on a chair.

Daniil had returned the favour in kind, helped strip Valtteri down to his boxers. The both peel out of their socks when they are lying in bed, like those are the forgotten things in their haste to feel this skin on skin.

‘Your flannel is in my bag. I kept it in my bag.’ He whispers ‘It smells like you’ into Daniil’s skin, warm against the cold of the room.

‘She posts pictures, of’ Daniil pauses. The sentence gets lost. Disappears into the air like it doesn’t matter. It does. But sometimes there is more power in the unspoken.

‘I don’t know any coffee places out here’ Val says, instead.

‘I’m sorry’ is all the reply he gets. A non sequitur that fits them too well.

They fall asleep like that. Curled in with no answers as to what this is. Valtteri wakes up in the middle of the night and finds the space next to him is empty. There’s a soft sound coming from the bathroom. Light spilling from underneath the closed door.

It’s chord, a soft melody played on a guitar. Something familiar but at the same time Val’s sleep addled brain can’t quite work it out. A check of a phone, Daniil’s, judging from the lock screen and the older iPhone model. It’s barely 11pm.

That’s when he clocks it, the guitar case on the floor, open devoid of its instrument.

Daniil’s voice is low, slightly out of tune.

_haven’t had a dream for a long time, seems the life I’ve had can make a good man bad_

Valtteri knows the song, can’t quite place it. Yet it sounds wistful in a way he knows the song shouldn’t. He slides the bathroom door open. Daniil’s perched on the edge of the toilet seat; guitar clenched gently in his hands. The singing stops when he looks up, strums the chords with finality. Fade away in the echo of the bathroom tiles.

‘You’ve been practicing. I’ve seen you on the Instagram’

‘The social media team like it’

‘Do you actually know Wonderwall?’

Daniil laughs, that weird deep one. Strums out the first few chords.

‘Come back to bed, will you? Or at least come sit on the bed and play. Toilet seat can’t be the comfiest place’

So, they walk back into the bedroom together. There’s a comfort in things, Valtteri watches Daniil strum random chords, fumble his way through songs. His phone flashes with a message.

**He asked. Figured it would be good for you.**

**Sorry if I overstepped**

**No mind games Val, just, you deserve something that probably can’t be given by the team**

Val smiles at his phone. He doesn’t notice the guitar stop, or Daniil looking at him until he looks up.

‘To whom it may concern?’ The word’s sound funny in Daniil’s mouth, Valtteri’s own defining speech on foreign tongues.

‘Fuck you’ he laughs out. Daniil looks at him with fondness, all the memories shared together tucked away in this tiny space that is winter break.

‘Good things?’

‘Yeah. Good things, such good things Daniil’

  


  


  


It’s funny, how things don’t last. They see each other across the grid, spread through races. Daniil congratulates him after every podium he gets. Warm hand in his palm.

It boils down to simple social media likes, occasional texts and smiles across paddock line ups. They talk more if there’s a parade truck instead of separate cars. Coffee a few times. Beds are never shared again; It gets stored in Valtteri’s mind. Clocked away as lost loves forming missed connections.

When he falls in love again, eventually. He wonders if he will think of the little space Daniil Kvyat carved out in his heart. If ever Daniil falls in love again, will he think the same of Val.

A text comes through two weeks before Christmas. Another season behind them.

**fancy some ice hockey?**

**Author's Note:**

> i felt like this was a bit of a cop out ending, but in the same way that if i made them hook up or anything that too would have been a cop out ending. obviously its insanely fictious but pairing them off truly, still too farfetched. 
> 
> title is from allday - rhythms. the song daniil is playing is please please please, let me get what i want. if you know me very well you will know what this is ultimately referencing. 
> 
> [tumblr](https://tororuhroh.tumblr.com/)  
> at this point u should be able to tell the tropes i enjoy and my writing style, next fic is a 'now for something completely different' just to keep reoccuring readers on there toes (i have reoccuring readers holy shit !??!? i see y'all and adore you)


End file.
